


The Pack Survives

by Aussie_Muggle



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Game of Thrones Alternate Season 08, I started writing this before season 8 came out, lol, still mad so here we are, this is self-indulgent overly optimistic drivel
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-14
Updated: 2021-02-15
Packaged: 2021-03-04 02:42:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 18,455
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24716245
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aussie_Muggle/pseuds/Aussie_Muggle
Summary: The sound of the war horn rang throughout Winterfell's courtyard.One blast. Two. Three.Sansa inhaled sharply. Daenerys nodded to Jon and he drew Longclaw."It's time," said Jon to the fearful men gathered before him. "Men of the North. Of the South. Of Essos... to your posts."The Long Night had begun.
Relationships: Arya Stark/Gendry Waters, Jaime Lannister/Brienne of Tarth, Jon Snow & Arya Stark & Bran Stark & Sansa Stark, Jon Snow/Daenerys Targaryen, Sansa Stark & Daenerys Targaryen
Comments: 103
Kudos: 86





	1. Dusk: Part One

Daenerys Targaryen entered Winterfell, not astride her dragons, but on horseback, with Jon Snow by her side. The gesture was meant as friendly, she was their ally, but the smallfolk still flinched away from the Unsullied, the Dothraki, and the two winged monsters in the sky.

Tyrion frowned from the carriage. This was something he would need to work on. Margaery Tyrell had charmed the people with food, a pretty face and kind words, but her power had come from playing the genteel lady.

Daenerys was a foreign warlord. She would have to play the game differently.

Sansa was the only Stark to great them, surrounded by Winterfell’s guards, and her attendants. A Maester hovered nervously by her side. She reminded Tyrion strikingly of Lady Catelyn and, alarmingly, Cersei. Gone was the terrified girl, hiding steel beneath silk. Her pretty silks had been traded in for black wool.

The look she gave her brother was colder than any winter. As was the look she gave her new Queen.

Jon got off the horse and helped Daenerys down. Sansa’s mouth twitched.

“May I present our Queen, Daenerys of House Targaryen,” said Jon.

Sansa didn’t hesitate, dipping into a low curtsy.

“Winterfell is yours, your Grace,” she said, her manners impeccable as usual.

Jon winced and Tyrion found himself agreeing. _I am loyal to my beloved Joffrey. My one true love._ Her tone had not changed.

“You must be exhausted from your journey,” continued Sansa. “I’ve prepared rooms for you and your court. If it pleases you, the Northern Lords will await you in the Great Hall in an hour.”

“Thank you, Lady Sansa,” said Daenerys after a moments hesitation. “That is much appreciated.”

To Tyrion’s surprise, Sansa turned to Grey Worm.

“Lord Torgo Nudho?” she said, courteous if not for her Northern accent stumbling over the words.

Grey Worm blinked. Missandei bit back a smile.

“Just Torgo Nudho, Lady Sansa,” he said. “Or… Grey Worm in your language.”

To her credit, Sansa didn’t react to the name. Even if the Maester and the guards did.

“Pardon me, Grey Worm,” said Sansa. “I’ve prepared some tents for your men but I’m afraid we don’t have enough.”

“It is fine,” said Grey Worm. “We have tents.”

“Maester Wolkan,” said Sansa. “See to it that our Queen’s men are fed and well rested.”

Wolkan looked very much like he wanted to decline, but still led Grey Worm and his men to where the armies of the North had set up camp. Sansa nodded to a young attendant, who scrambled forward.

“This way, your Grace,” he said, a tremor of fear in his voice.

Daenerys gave the boy a reassuring smile and followed. Her eyes locked with Jon’s before she left _._ Tyrion sighed. No one had ever accused the Starks or Targaryens of subtlety. He was somewhat heartened by the half-smile Sansa managed when she saw him.

“My lady,” said Tyrion.

“Lord Tyrion,” said Sansa “It’s good to see you.”

She sounded, surprisingly, genuine. Or maybe she had just become a better liar than she had been in King’s Landing. Either way, Tyrion returned Sansa’s smile and left with his queen.

*

Jon’s return home was something of a blur. Sansa had embraced her role as Lady of Winterfell and deftly dealt with the arrival of Daenerys and her hosts without so much as a word from him. Tyrion left last and managed to steal a half-smile from his sister.

She was still… _cold._ Jon was reminded uncomfortably of Lady Catelyn. He hesitated before approaching her.

“Sansa-”

Sansa hugged him. Briefly. Jon let out the breath he had been holding.

“I’m glad you’re safe,” she said, curtly but not without warmth. “Bran is in the Godswood.”

There was something there. Hidden. Something Sansa was not saying about Bran.

“And Arya?” asked Jon holding back eagerness.

At last, Jon earned a smile. A real one.

“Underfoot somewhere,” said Sansa. “The Northern Lords are… _anxious_ to speak with you.”

Jon winced again.

“You owe them an explanation,” said Sansa firmly.

“This was the best course of action,” said Jon. “They may not like it, but we need Daenerys if we mean to survive.”

Sansa gave him a very knowing look.

“Was that your only motivation?”

“The only one that matters,” said Jon firmly, which seemed to satisfy Sansa enough. “I heard there were some problems. With Littlefinger.”

Sansa glanced at Varys, who was studying her intently as he left with Daenerys’ retinue.

“I’ll explain later,” she murmured. “Go see Bran.”

*

Missandei had changed Daenerys out of her riding clothes by the time Tyrion, Jorah, Varys and Grey Worm came to greet her, and fixed the braids that had come loose while riding. Daenerys wore the black tunic and armoured bodice of a warrior, not a gown for a lady, and a warm cloak of ermine. Not extravagant, but costly enough for her to be taken seriously. Simple, but stately. Tyrion privately marvelled at Missandei’s knack for reading a crowd.

“Lady Sansa is not pleased to see us,” said Daenerys.

“Sansa fought for her home and we’ve essentially invaded it,” said Tyrion. “It’ll take time to gain her trust.”

“Do we have time?” asked Jorah.

“We’ll have to make it,” said Tyrion. “The Queen will have an easier time ruling a united country than a dead one.”

“Why do you want the Iron Throne?” asked Grey Worm suddenly.

Tyrion’s eyebrows shot up into his forehead and Daenerys _stared_. She had given Grey Worm his freedom but he had never, _ever_ questioned her. Grey Worm shuffled a little under the scrutiny but his posture, the posture of a soldier, was the same as always. He did not shrink.

“It’s mine by right,” said Daenerys finally.

“You have throne in Meereen,” said Grey Worm, a little more dismissively than strictly appropriate when speaking with a Queen. “This country cold and miserable. The people even more.”

Even Missandei looked shocked at that. Tyrion wanted to protest in defence of his homeland but it was _fucking freezing_ and he had no legs to stand on.

“They’re _my_ people,” said Daenerys firmly. “They’re my people and they’re suffering.”

Finally, Grey Worm smiled at her.

“This is it, my Queen,” he said. “We did not follow you because you rode dragon or because you burn bad men. You cannot be dragon here. Here you must be Mhysa. Breaker of Chains.”

“Well said,” said Varys softly.

“You should speak up more at councils,” said Daenerys warmly.

“I will try, my Queen,” said Grey Worm. “I don’t like talking as much as Tyrion.”

Tyrion made an indignant noise. Daenerys managed not to laugh at the affronted look on his face.

“Well, what can we do to improve relations with the North?” she asked her advisors. “I imagine our food will speak more than our gold in such a place.”

“Northerners are a practical people,” agreed Jorah. “If we pool our supplies the Northerners may see us as less of an invading force and more of an ally but...”

He trailed off, uncertain.

“They’re proud,” said Daenerys quietly, “and I took their King.”

Tyrion hesitated before speaking. He wasn’t entirely sure if Jon and Daenerys’ nightly activities were due to attraction, mutual admiration or love. Remarking on it bordered on insubordination.

“Have you considered… giving our Warden of the North a new title?” asked Tyrion, trying not to sound too impertinent.

Daenerys didn’t quite look at Jorah when she answered. For his part, Jorah stared determinedly at the stone floor.

“I have considered it,” said Daenerys, “but now is not the time for such frivolities.”

The horde of dead men heading for them at any moment certainly did put a damper on wedding planning.

“I suppose not,” said Tyrion. “As for Sansa... the opposite may help. Missandei, I’ll need your help. Your handwriting is much nicer than my chicken scratch.”

*

Arya was standing by Bran’s wheelchair, by the heart tree.

She had lost what little pretence of being a lady she ever had. She wore leather bound armour and looked even more like their lord father than ever. She hadn’t grown at all taller but didn’t look quite so messy as she had as a child. There was no smidge of dirt on her nose, her hair had been braided back out of the way and it looked like Sansa had sewn her tunic and cloak.

Arya still leapt into Jon’s arms like she always had. She still buried her face into his neck. Jon felt her tears falling on him and his own tears ran down his cheeks.

“Gods, I missed you,” breathed Jon.

“I missed you too,” she said thickly, holding him tight enough to hurt.

Jon took a deep breath and let her go reluctantly.

“Bran?” he called.

Bran had grown too. He was taller and his shoulders were broader. His features had grown sharper in adulthood.

But he didn’t respond to Jon’s voice. His eyes were glazed white. Jon’s face fell.

“He does that,” said Arya quietly. “Sometimes he’s gone for hours. When he’s back, he’s… distant.”

This was the truth Sansa had kept from Jon. That not all of Bran had returned home to Winterfell. But not all of Jon had made it back either.

“All of us are altered after everything that’s happened,” he said.

A cold, blank look flashed on Arya’s face so quickly Jon thought he had dreamed it.

“Some more than others,” she muttered. “You’re the same.”

Olly’s face, blue from the noose, came to his mind unbidden. His scars ached. Jon forced a smile and noticed the blades by Arya’s sides.

“You kept Needle.”

“I couldn’t let it go.”

“And... is that Valyrian steel?” said Jon, noticing the catspaw dagger.

That cold, inscrutable look reappeared on Arya’s face. It didn’t go away.

“It belonged to Littlefinger,” said Arya, and Jon felt a chill run down his spine.

“What happened?” Jon feared the answer but he had to know.

“Littlefinger betrayed father in King’s Landing,” said Arya, her features etched in ice. “He sort to turn us against each other. Bran found the evidence. Sansa gave the verdict. I carried out the sentence.”

Jon’s siblings had killed a man. He’d known Sansa had turned mistrustful and somewhat mercenary. Arya had always had a hot temper. _Wolves’ blood._ She had never been cold. He shook his head.

“Baelish was Lord Protector of the Vale-”

“Royce could not give a single fuck,” said Arya dismissively. “He hated him.”

“ _Arya!_ ”

“Jon,” she said back calmly.

Before Jon could respond or even process what was happening, Bran blinked and colour flooded back to his eyes.

Jon’s heart had soared when he saw his little brother again. Bran looked indifferent.

“You’re back,” was all his last living brother said.

Jon bent down and held him, regardless. Bran held him back, his touch featherlight.

“The Northern Lords are arriving,” said Bran. “You’d best head to the hall.”

It was a dismissal, if Jon had ever heard one. The boy before him looked and sounded like Bran, but Jon couldn’t find a trace of him in those distant eyes.

“Come on,” said Arya gently. “Sansa will be cross if we’re late.”

Jon followed Arya to the great hall in silence, his mind still reeling. Davos was waiting for them.

“How’s the mood?” asked Jon.

Davos took a deep breath.

“Well,” said the onion knight plainly. “The last time people were this cheerful, you were murdered.”

Arya froze in horror. Jon glared at his former Hand. Davos had tried to convince him to discuss the events at the Wall with his family. The older knight was apparently resorting to cruder means.

“Sorry,” said Davos unapologetically.

“What do you fucking mean _murdered_?” snarled Arya.

“ _Stop cursing_ ,” said Jon, more alarmed than genuinely reproachful.

“The Red Woman brought him back,” said Davos in an attempt to be helpful.

Arya seemed _slightly_ less furious.

“Like Beric Dondarrion?” she asked.

Jon nodded. Arya scowled and hugged him again.

“You’re an idiot,” she said into his shoulder.

“I know,” Jon mumbled.

“If anyone touches you, I’ll kill them.”

Jon believed her.

*

Jorah thought it best to remain absent from the meeting. Tyrion had agreed. The Hand of the Queen being a Lannister was going to be hard enough for the North to swallow. Not to mention their King giving up his crown.

“My Lords,” said Jon Snow with all the solemnity of his Lord Father before him. “I have bent the knee to Daenerys Targaryen.”

Tyrion had spent may a time in room full of people who despised him. The heavy, reproachful silence of the Northerners was not encouraging. Jon took a breath and continued.

“You named me your King and gave me your trust. I do not give up my title lightly,” he said. “Queen Daenerys is not her father or her brothers. She gave up her campaign for the throne to help the North. We need her aid and her dragons if we mean to survive this war.”

“And what of the Lannisters?” snapped Glover, glaring at Tyrion.

Tyrion steeled himself and got to his feet.

“Cersei agreed to send her men North to fight the dead in exchange for temporary truce.”

Predictably, the Northerners erupted angrily at that. Tyrion noticed Sansa’s hands clenched on the table. Lord Manderly leapt to his feet, his face red with fury.

“The Lannisters are bringing their armies to Winterfell,” he hissed, “and you’re just… _letting them in_.”

Jon sighed.

“Believe me… know what I ask isn’t easy,” he said, no doubt thinking of his father and brothers. “But the Night King doesn’t care about our wars. He means to slaughter us all and we do not have enough men to stop him alone.”

“Do you doubt the strength of the North, Jon Snow?” asked Lyanna Mormont furiously.

“ _Never_ , my Lady,” said Jon firmly. “I do not doubt our strength or our bravery...but even with the Lannister army, the Dorthraki horde, the Unsullied and two dragons, the odds are against us. All I want is for the North to _survive_.”

Clegane had never been one to speak up in a crowd but, to Tyrion’s surprise, he got to his feet.

“The boy is right,” said the Hound. “I can kill men better than any of you Northern fuckers-”

“There are young ladies-”

“Shut up, Royce, you old cunt. What I saw out there was fucking terrifying and if you mean to survive, you’ll need more than Northern pride.”

The loud anger turned into muttering. Whatever he was, the Hound had a reputation as a hardened killer.

“No… this will be another Red Wedding,” said Lord Glover, shaking his head. “Bread and salt mean nothing to these people. You would have us trust the word of that little Kinslayer.”

Before Tyrion could open his mouth to speak, Sansa got to her feet.

“Tywin Lannister was a cruel tyrant,” said Sansa firmly. “He would have murdered Lord Tyrion for the crime of being born.”

“Born a dwarf,” sneered a man Tyrion did not recognise.

The Lady of Winterfell turned her icy gaze to him.

“A dwarf who’s fought more battles than you, Lord Cerwyn,” said Sansa coldly. “Tywin Lannister deserved to die. Lord Tyrion’s actions were necessary.”

Necessary not honourable. Calling the crossbow murder of one’s Lord father on the privvy _honourable_ was a stretch by anyone’s standards. Nevertheless, a Stark vouching so emphatically for a Lannister meant something. The Northerners settled. Somewhat.

“Those Dothraki savages won’t rape and pillage?” asked Royce.

Qhorro understood enough of the common tongue to know he was being insulted. He almost jumped to his feet, but Daenerys silenced him with a look.

“The Dothraki are my people,” she said with calm authority. “I would have you speak of them with respect. They will not rape or pillage. You have my word.”

Royce gave Daenerys a derisively look.

“The word of a _Targaryen_.”

A flash of frustration crossed Jon Snow’s features.

“Lord Royce-”

“You’re right,” said Daenerys, cutting off Jon. “I demand loyalty that my family has done little to earn.”

Tyrion blinked. _Seven Hells._ _She wasn’t supposed to-_

“Southern rulers have treated the North shamefully,” continued Daenerys. “Joffrey Waters had Ned Stark beheaded and his daughter brutalised. Tywin Lannister had Northerners slaughtered at wedding under the protection of guest rite. My own father murdered Richard and Brandon Stark in the cruellest way imaginable. Rhaegar stole a daughter he had no right to. The rebellions against the crown were not treason. They were justice.”

“We know all this,” said Lady Lyanna sharply. “What do you want of us?”

“I have not come to conquer the North. I ask you not to bend the knee... but to help me. Help me turn the Seven Kingdoms into a place of peace and prosperity. Help me protect it from those who destroy it. Stand _with_ me.”

There was no angry whispering. The Northerners were listening silently now. Daenerys turned to Sansa and Jon.

“What is this phrase your Lord Father used to say to you?”

Daenerys had once thought of Eddard Stark as the Usurper’s dog. But now she spoke of him reverently in front of the Northern Lords.

“The lone wolf dies,” said Sansa softly, “but the pack survives.”

Daenerys turned back to the Northern Lords, and spoke to them as she had to the Unsullied in Astapor and the Dothraki in the Red Waste. Like a Queen.

“My dragons will defend you. I will fight by your side. We will defeat the Night King and get justice for your kin in the South. Together. What say you?”

The Northerners cried out in response. Probably not as loud as when they crowned their king but a good start. Jon could not hide the look of adoration on his face and Sansa looked… less guarded.

Tyrion counted this as a win.


	2. Dusk: Part Two

Clegane spared Tyrion a glare before bringing down his axe on the log. His firewood pile was significantly larger than the other Northern soldiers' who were also tasked with preparing the castle for the long winter. There was something ironic about the Hound cutting firewood but Tyrion thought it best to keep that thought to himself.

“Have you seen Lady Sansa?” asked Tyrion, stepping back to avoid splitters.

“She’s in the Godswood,” said Clegane gruffly. “Probably trying to avoid you fuckers.”

“Just like old times,” said Tyrion with a sigh. “Have you spoken with her?”

“Why the fuck would she want that?”

Tyrion wasn’t sure how to politely point out that Clegane, while undeniably an arse, was one of the few people in King’s Landing that didn’t treat Sansa like the city’s communal whipping girl.

“Shall we go together?” he asked instead.

Clegane hit the next log a little harder than strictly necessary, wrenched his axe free and rounded on an unsuspecting Northerner passing by.

“Make yourself useful,” said Clegane, shoving the axe into his arms.

The man looked too startled to refuse. Clegane strode off the in the direction of the Godswood and Tyrion hurried after him.

Sansa may have given up her Gods, but Tyrion could see why she had chosen this place as her refuge. He indulged in a fair amount of scepticism himself, but even he felt a chill as he entered. The deeper they walked into the wood, the heavier the air became. The Godswood in King’s Landing was nothing more than a pretty garden with tall trees. A peaceful sanctuary. This was wood was ancient. The feeling that Tyrion was filled with was not peace. Even Clegane looked uneasy.

Tyrion had never seen a real heart tree. The bark of the weirwood was unnaturally white and its leaves were the colour of copper and blood. Its face was serene, unsettling. Ever watchful. The weirwood was reflected in a still pond that hadn’t frozen over just yet.

Sansa sat by the base of the weirwood with a basket of sewing. She seemed to be working on leather guards for archers. The Dothraki and the Northern archers would be manning the walls during the siege, with the Unsullied to defend them should the dead managed to climb battlements. The Dothraki were skilled archers but it had taken time to dissuade them of riding out to meet the dead in an open field.

Something shifted in the snow before they could reach her. Something massive and near invisible. It moved towards Sansa, and Clegane froze in his tracks, almost drawing his sword.

“Direwolf,” breathed Clegane.

Neither of them had seen Jon Snow’s direwolf for a while. Ghost had been a pup when Tyrion had left the Wall. He was now fully grown and about the size of a small pony.

Ghost was not alone. Smaller, but still alarmingly large, black hounds trotted up to the Lady of Winterfell and curled up by her feet.

“It seems she kept the Bolton boy’s dogs,” said Tyrion faintly.

Even Clegane looked rather horrified.

“Why the ever-loving _fuck_ would she…”

Sansa looked up at the sound of them speaking and smiled at them both.

“Sandor,” she said warmly. “Lord Tyrion. What can I help you with?”

Ghost, who apparently recognised Tyrion, was perfect content by Sansa’s side. However, the largest of the hounds, a muscular black mastiff, moved to sit between the newcomers and Sansa and _stared_.

Tyrion managed not to take a step back.

"Don't be alarmed,” said Sansa. “They're quite safe."

Daenerys often said the same thing about her dragons. With the same sweet smile which suggested the opposite.

“Who are your charming new companions?" asked Tyrion, failing to hide his nervousness.

"You’ve met Ghost,” said Sansa, scratching the direwolf’s ear like a child would a puppy. “Florian. Jonaquil. Jenny."

"You named the man eating hounds after the c-fools in your songs?" asked Clegane incredulously.

Tyrion frowned and turned to look at Clegane. He had never known the man to censor himself.

"You named your horse _Stranger_ , Sandor,” said Sansa lightly. “You can't talk."

“Still,” muttered the Hound. “They're well trained beasts."

Tyrion couldn't help it. He smirked.

"Lady Sansa has a great deal of experience taming vicious hounds."

Clegane glared.

"Fuck off." All attempt of propriety forgotten apparently.

"I meant the direwolves."

"Fuck you."

Clegane stormed back to the courtyard. Sansa gave Tyrion a disproving look.

"You shouldn't needle him so," she scolded.

"Old habits,” said Tyrion. “This is for you, my Lady.”

He gingerly walked around Florian the vicious, man eating hound and handed Sansa the scroll. She opened it carefully.

_I, Daenerys Targaryen, Queen of the Andals and the First Men, Queen of Meereen, Khalessi of the Great Grass Sea, the Unburnt, Breaker of Chains and Mother of Dragons, do hereby decree that marriage between Lord Tyrion Lannister, Hand of the Queen, and Lady Sansa Stark of Winterfell annulled on the grounds that it was unconsummated and that both parties were the victims of coercion._

Sansa carefully rolled up the scroll and held it tightly before slipping it into the satchel at her side.

“Thank you, Tyrion,” said Sansa quietly. “Truly.”

“It was the least I could do.”

Sansa finished sewing the guard, picked up her basket and headed back for the keep. Tyrion walked with her.

“You wouldn’t choose to serve a Mad Queen,” she said as they made their way through the Godswood. “Not after Joffrey.”

“Queen Daenerys can be a little… reactionary,” admitted Tyrion, “but she has far too much compassion in her to be another Aerys.”

“Jon seems fond of her,” said Sansa.

Tyrion glanced up at her. Her face betrayed no trace of emotion, but she’d rarely let her feelings show in King’s Landing.

“They are rather fond of each other,” said Tyrion carefully. “You seem worried.”

Sansa looked at the direct of the crypts and Tyrion understood. Love was a complication. Robb had loved Talisa Maegyr, the North had burned and Sansa had been left at the mercy of the Lannisters.

“The Northern Lords wont like it,” was all she said in response.

“Daenerys will sway them,” reassured Tyrion. “What does the Lady of Winterfell think?”

“We’ll see.”

*

The Hound seemed to be in a bad mood and was taking out whatever frustration he had on a defenceless pile of firewood. Gendry kept his distance as he walked past and headed towards the archers with the dragonglass arrows.

“We need to test these arrow heads,” he said to the armourer, a man from the Vale. “I’m not sure if the dragonglass-”

Gendry stopped talking. His eyes fell on the small warrior sparring with Brienne of Tarth and Podric Payne both. Lady Brienne was stronger and quick for someone of her size, but the other fighter moved like running water. Payne fought well but was completely outclassed. The match ended with a tie. Payne on his back, a blade at Lady Brienne’s neck and another at the smaller fighter’s heart.

“Well done, my Lady,” said Brienne breathlessly. “You almost had me that time.”

The smaller woman grinned broadly and helped Payne to his feet. Gendry blinked. It had been years but he’d recognise that smile anywhere.

“ _Arya?_ ”

The warrior turned _._ It _was_ Arya. She was still small but she looked _stronger_. Like all the fire on the inside was out there for the world to see. Her cheeks were flushed with exertion and some of her hair had fallen out of the braids holding it back.

The armourer politely scuttled away and left them to talk. Gendry appreciated that, even if it was more in deference to Lord Stark’s daughter than it was to him. Lady Brienne ushered Payne away.

“You’re alive,” she said, in her usual matter-of-fact way.

The slight smile in the corner of her mouth gave away her happiness.

“For now,” said Gendry with what he hoped was charming indifference. “You made it home.”

“Of course I did,” she said with a grin, sliding Needle back into its thin sheath. 

“You’ve gotten good.” An understatement. Gendry could barely reconcile this competent swordswoman with the small but determined girl he had shared the road with.

“I’ve had some practise,” said Arya. “Are those the dragonglass arrows?”

“They need testing,” said Gendry. “The heads are brittle and I don’t know if it will be-”

Arya immediately took one of the arrows went for a bow. She nocked the arrow with practised ease and aimed for a target on the other side of the yard. She hit it dead centre. The Knight of the Vale who had been shooting arrows startled and looked around for the archer who hit the target.

“Seems strong enough,” she remarked.

It took a moment for Gendry to find his voice.

“Aye,” he said. “I’d best get back to work.”

*

There was a sharp knock at the door of her father’s solar. Sansa lifted up her head from the piles of scrolls, detailing the contributions of the Northern Lords to Winterfell’s food stores.

“Come in,” she said wearily.

The Dragon Queen opened the door and Sansa immediately got to her feet.

“Your Grace,” said Sansa. “Jon is with Ser Davos organising the outer defences.”

“It’s you I wished to speak to, Lady Sansa,” said Daenerys. “Jon told me you’d been organising supplies for the troops.”

Sansa attempted to hide her unease.

“Yes, your Grace.”

She gestured for the Dragon Queen to sit and offered her wine. Daenerys shook her head.

“I imagine forty thousand Dorathki didn’t factor into your calculations,” said Daenerys. “I spoke with Varys and Tyrion about the supplies we brought with us. These should make your numbers more favourable.”

Daenerys handed Sansa a piece of parchment with Tyrion’s familiar scrawl. Sansa read through the note quickly and wrote the numbers on her own parchment. She had no head for numbers as a child. She had had to learn quickly.

“It’s not ideal,” murmured Sansa, “but it is a drastic improvement.”

“How long will our supplies last in a siege?”

“Four months, if we’re lucky,” said Sansa, “but the Maesters say this winter will last for a decade.”

A look of shock flashed across Daenerys’ features but she hid it quickly. Sansa doubted winters lasted longer than a few years across the Narrow Sea, or if there was even snow.

“Hopefully, the battle will not last so long,” said Daenerys. “The siege of Meereen ended quickly when my dragons joined the battle but even they were overwhelmed by the dead.”

Sansa pursed her lips.

“I imaging the dragons need to eat a fair amount.”

“They eat a large meal every few weeks,” admitted Daenerys. “Livestock. Horses, cattle and goats. Should food prove scare, they can hunt in the woods.”

From the moment she learned her letters, Arya had devoured all the library books about dragons, battles and silver-haired warrior queens. Sansa had found those stories distasteful. The dragons in those tales ate more than cattle.

Daenerys must have noticed the look on her face.

“The dragons will not harm your people, Lady Sansa,” said Daenerys.

“I don’t know you, your Grace,” said Sansa. “I don’t trust as easily as I once did.”

“What is your first impression?” asked Daenerys wryly.

The low call of a dragon echoed over Winterfell. Sansa hesitated.

“I don’t punish advisors for speaking the truth, Lady Sansa,” said Daenerys with a tone that was meant to reassure.

Sansa considered the Dragon Queen for a moment. Daenerys had power, more than anyone vying for the Throne. She wanted the loyalty of the North and, despite their attempts to hide it, she wanted Jon.

Sansa’s approval would go a long way. And she hadn’t given it yet.

For the North to survive, they needed Daenerys’ dragons and men. Jon had made that abundantly clear. And he wouldn’t have risked the North for the sake of his feelings. He was more Ned Stark’s son than any of them. He knew his duty.

“You don’t know the North,” said Sansa finally. “None of the Dothraki or even the Unsullied are dressed warmly enough for a real winter. You know nothing of Westeros other than the fact it belongs to you.”

Daenerys didn’t respond at first. Sansa feared she had gone too far until-

“You’re right,” said Daenerys quietly. “Most of what I was told about this land was a lie my brother fed me. But I mean to learn.”

Joffrey had not bothered to learn. He had not cared enough to try.

“I know the people suffer under Cersei Lannister. I know worse monsters are heading for us now,” continued Daenerys. “I know what is to be powerless. I know what it is to suffer and be unable to stop it. I don’t want anyone else to feel like that.”

Sansa knew that feeling too well. She nodded.

“I think we can find enough winter garments for your men,” said Sansa. “Some of the pelts the Dothraki have will be useful. I’ll speak to the wildling women. They could help us.”

Daenerys smiled.

*

The “feast” to welcome the Queen was a meagre affair. Qhorro muttered something under his breath about the meat being bland. It was perhaps bland by Dothraki standards, who cooked meat with honey and spices, but the watery stew was warm and peppery and they were all hungry enough to dig into the meal.

Lyanna Mormont approached Jorah and Grey Worm before they could sit. She only came up to Jorah’s waist but the look on her face would make any man shrink.

“Cousin,” said Lyanna coolly.

“My lady,” said Jorah with a bow of his head.

“I’m surprised the Dragon Queen did not crucify you with the other slavers.”

Even Grey Worm was a little taken aback at that.

“Ser Jorah did great wrong,” said Grey Worm. “But he helped free Yunkai and Meereen. He is loyal to our Queen.”

“You have some honour left then,” said Lyanna.

“Some,” said Jorah quietly.

“Sit with me, cousin,” said Lyanna with a tone that brokered no refusal. “I want to know more of Essos.”

Those at the head table watched the exchange between the old and young bears with varying degrees of alarm.

“That went well,” said Jon.

“…did it?” asked Daenerys.

“That girl is terrifying,” said Tyrion, “and I say that as someone who grew up with Cersei.”

Sansa bit back a smile at that.

“Ser Snow,” said Qhorro suddenly from the end of the table.

The Dothraki man hadn’t quite mastered Westerosi titles. Jon titled his head.

“Jon is fine,” he said.

“Jon. You became King here after you kill Bolton, yes?” asked Qhorro. “Andal soldier was saying.”

It made sense to the Dothraki. Killing a Khal to take his place. Jon flinched and opened his mouth to speak when-

“Jon didn’t execute Ramsay Snow,” said Sansa, stirring her soup. “I did.”

The silence at the table was broken by Tyrion choking, mid drink, spraying wine on the table. Varys patted his back, politely unsurprised by the new development. Daenerys raised an eyebrow at Jon, who shrugged.

“Pardon?” said Arya finally.

“Didn’t I tell you?” Sansa asked Arya with a frown, ignoring Tyrion’s spluttering.

“No,” said Arya slowly. “No, I would have definitely remembered that. How did you…”

Sansa tore off a small piece of meat and held it under the table. Florian’s massive head emerged and she nibbled at it delicately.

Tyrion slowly looked down and found the other two dogs sleeping at Sansa’s feet.

“Don’t look so alarmed, Lord Tyrion,” said Sansa. “You were my favourite Lannister and my favourite husband.”

Tyrion let out a sharp laugh. Damned with faint praise, but he’d take the compliment.

“I love your dress, Lady Sansa,” said Daenerys suddenly.

The statement was a bit of an awkward pivot but it occurred to Tyrion that Daenerys hadn’t really socialised with another woman that wasn’t once her servant. It also occurred to him that feeding cruel men to family pets was a sure-fire way to win Daenerys’ approval.

“Thank you, your Grace,” smiled Sansa. “I must say, the stitching on your cloak is exquisite.”

“It’s Missandei’s work,” said Daenerys proudly. “She’s far more talented than I.”

Missandei bowed her head demurely.

“When the world isn’t on the brink of disaster, you and I need to discuss sewing patterns,” said Sansa firmly.

“I would like that, Lady Stark,” said Missandei.

Arya rolled her eyes and slurped her soup. Sansa chose to ignore her.

*

A snow storm hit Winterfell soon after the feast. Even the Northerners felt the chill.

Sansa had placed Daenerys in the largest guest quarters, that had once housed King Robert Baratheon. Instead of his Queen, Jon found a small pile of furs and blankets on the bed.

“Dany?”

The pile moved. Jon let out a small laugh. The room was far warmer than most in the castle, but undoubtedly frigid by Essos standards.

“Are you under all that?” he teased.

Daenerys poked out her head.

“I am the blood of the dragon,” she mumbled. “Don’t make fun of me.”

Before the Mother of Dragons could bury her head back under the covers, she noticed that Jon hadn’t entered her chambers alone. A large white direwolf sat by his side, his red eyes fixed on her.

“I thought you should meet Ghost,” said Jon.

“Jon,” said Daenerys slowly, “how did you get a direwolf passed my guards?”

“I asked,” replied Jon. “Grey Worm threatened to make me Unsullied if you get a scratch on you.”

Daenerys let out a soft laugh and held out the back of her hand. She didn’t have to wonder if the creature liked her. Direwolves were decidedly easier to read than dragons were. Ghost wagged his tail like a pup and sniffed her hand in greeting. Apparently approving of her, the direwolf found a place by the fire and curled up.

Jon took off his tunic and climbed in beside her. She pressed her cold nose into his neck.

“They like you,” he murmured. “Sansa and Arya.”

“I like them,” said Daenerys. “I didn’t see Bran at the feast.”

“Bran ate in his room. He’s distant now,” said Jon quietly. “His abilities they… they changed him.”

His brother was alive, but Jon still mourned the boy who idolised him, Robb and Theon. Who climbed castle walls with joyful, reckless abandon. Who wanted so desperately to be a knight and prove himself to their father. Who played with Summer in piles of fallen red leaves.

Daenerys pulled him closer and pressed a comforting kiss to his cheek. Jon sank into her arms let himself drift into sleep. Until the direwolf mistook himself for a lap dog and leapt onto the bed.

“Ghost! No, get off the- down, boy!”

*

The snow was falling heavily but Jaime wouldn’t have called it a storm just yet. A light fall by Northern standards. Miserable by everyone else’s.

It was dark. Too dark. Jaime debated making camp but he was close to his destination.

A branch snapped behind him. Jaime turned his horse and drew his sword. He lowered his blade when he saw who his pursuer was.

“What are you doing here?” asked Jaime with a scowl.

“Protecting my investment,” said Bronn. “Fuck me, it’s cold.”

“You know what we’re going up against, don’t you?” said Jaime. “Hardly the safest place in Westeros.”

“Better the dead than Cersei.”

Jaime’s expression turned cold at the mention of his sister and he turned his horse back around.

“Fine.”

Bronn lightly kicked his horse forward and rode by Jaime’s side. The sellsword wasn’t known for keeping a companionable silence and couldn’t stop himself from talking.

“How are you feeling about…” Bronn trailed off, gesturing inarticulately. “…things”

“Fine.”

“I can see that,” said Bronn, pointing down the other side of the fork in the road. “Winterfell is that way.”

“We’re making a stop first.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It feels a bit slow going to me but there’s a lot to sort out before the zombie apocalypse. Like arming and feeding 50 000 troops and not putting catapults outside the castle walls. And the two main female leads actually having a sensible discussion with each other. Is it in character? I don’t know. Being in character means nothing anymore. But they’re intelligent and they need each other so... this is it.
> 
> Deleted scenes include Missandei carefully laying out a black and red outfit for Daenerys on the bed and being mortified later on when she sees the white direwolf fur on her queen.
> 
> Sansa got the hounds in the divorce. They spent season seven being properly socialised off screen. Why? I like dogs.


	3. Dusk: Part Three

Gendry chose to work in one of the warm huts the wildlings had built rather than the forge. It had a small brick hearth and a sturdy worktable. He found a little peace within those makeshift walls but he wasn’t so far away that he couldn’t help the others. Winterfell’s blacksmith was a farrier who was skilled in his work, but unaccustomed to forging weapons. The wildlings knew best how to work with material like dragonglass but had no knowledge of working a modern forge. The men the Dothraki sent were former slaves, set free by their Queen, who couldn’t speak a word of common. Still, they created thousands of arrows between them, fitted with dragonglass or wrapped with pitch-soaked rags. The men from the Vale were skilled enough but struggled in Winterfell’s neglected forge, and tended to bicker with the wildlings.

Gendry got along with the wildlings, managed to communicate with the Essosi men, and taught the armourers from the Vale how to make do with what they had. He was quietly surprised by the respect he was given. Apparently, no one would shun him for being a bastard in a castle ruled by one.

He had just finished making another blade, when the Dragon Queen strode inside. She was smaller up close, a little shorter than even Arya. He would have thought her delicate, if he hadn’t seen her atop a dragon, flying North to rescue Jon and the others. The two Unsullied guarding the exit, their eyes fixed on him, made her seem a little more threatening.

The Queen picked up one of the blades and examined the edge.

“So this is what’s become of my dragonglass,” she said, her voice low and quiet.

“We’ll have the blades for the Dothraki soon, your Grace,” said Gendry rapidly, looking down at the ground. “We couldn’t get them curved like they wanted...”

“The Dothraki don’t really mind what they’re killing with,” said Queen Daenerys, placing the blade back where she found it.

“…aye.”

“You seem nervous.”

Terrified was closer to the mark.

“I'm Robert Baratheon's bastard, your Grace,” he said, his voice wavering.

He waited for the hammer to fall, but the Queen only studied him, as though searching for some trait or other.

“I know,” said the Queen calmly. “The Spider keeps me informed.”

 _Fuck_. “Oh.”

“What was he like?”

Gendry blinked. “Sorry?”

“Your father,” explained the Queen. “What was he like?”

“I… I don't know,” said Gendry. “Only ever caught glimpses of him. He seemed... bigger than the rest of us smallfolk. Like you on your dragons.”

“Am I so different from you?” asked Queen Daenerys with a wry smile.

He risked a glance up. The Dragon Queen was dressed in fine white furs, her white hair was intricately braided and she was completely unbothered by the heat. Gendry, covered in sweat and soot, barely felt like the same species.

“I don’t have dragons, your Grace,” was what he said out loud.

“Are you proud of being his son?” asked Daenerys with more curiosity than accusation. “It was quite a risk... admitting who you are.”

Gendry shook his head.

“He used and abandoned my mother,” he murmured. “I went hungry while he had feast after feast.”

“But?” pressed the Queen.

“I can do more to change this world for the better as the son of a king than a nameless bastard,” said Gendry.

“You seek to be legitimised? Claim your father's throne?”

“What? N-No! No I just meant… no one listens to the smallfolk,” he spluttered. “No one cared about me until they knew who my father was.”

“You have a claim,” said the Dragon Queen casually. “A strong one. You’re the only living child of Robert Baratheon.”

“I can only be legitimised by royal decree,” said Gendry with a panicked laugh. “You going to do it, or should I write to Cersei?”

Queen Daenerys rose an eyebrow.

“Your Grace,” added Gendry quickly.

“I might,” she said. “Bend the knee and I'll give you Storm's End.”

Gendry stared and tried to comprehend the words the Dragon Queen was saying.

“I don’t know how to be a Lord,” was what he managed.

“Good,” she said firmly. “You won’t be like your father. You won’t be like the other Lords of Westeros. You’ll know what it is to go hungry.”

There was something about the way she had said it. Something _knowing_ that made Gendry look up at her from the spot on the floor he’d picked.

“Did... did you ever go hungry, your Grace?” he asked.

She hesitated before answering.

“They called my brother the Beggar King,” said Queen Daenerys. “He sold my mother's crown so we wouldn't starve... but we had a crown to sell, I suppose. Perspective.”

“Is that why you freed all those people in Meereen?” asked Gendry.

“Among other reasons.”

The fear gripping Gendry like a vice lessened. Somewhat.

“I could follow someone like that,” he said earnestly, making Queen Daenerys smile.

“So could I.”

Gendry jumped at the sound of Arya’s voice. She emerged from the shadows in the corner of the makeshift forge. The two Unsullied, who had been blocking the only entrance, were equally startled.

Daenerys put up a hand to stop them charging in.

“ _Valar Morghulis,_ Lady Arya,” said Queen Daenerys.

Arya tilted her head at the greeting.

“ _Valar Dohaeris,_ Your Grace,” said Arya. “Varys is better informed than I thought.”

“Your Riverlands exploits weren’t exactly subtle,” said the Queen dryly. “Besides, I’ve met a Faceless Man once before.”

“You did?” asked Arya.

“My protector, Ser Willem, once deprived the House of Black and White of one of its acolytes.”

“The God of Death was paid either way,” said Arya with a shrug. “Besides, I’m retired.”

Gendry didn’t know what in Seven Hells was going on but Queen Daenerys smiled at that.

“Indeed,” said the Dragon Queen. “I’d best let you get back to work, Gendry.”

The Queen left with her guards, leaving Gendry with a unbothered Arya, waiting patiently for him to calm down.

“ _Stranger_ , what in the hells was that, Arya?” said Gendry when he caught his breath.

“Sansa wanted me to check on the weapons,” said Arya calmly. “You looked like you were shitting yourself so I popped in.”

“You popped in,” repeated Gendry flatly.

Arya shrugged. If his father’s fondness for drink hadn’t eventually killed him, Gendry would have asked for one right now. Instead, he got back to work and picked up a fresh chunk of dragonglass.

“Got a pile of blades there,” said Gendry wearily. “Test away. They’ll be more than enough for every man in Winterfell soon.”

Arya crossed a little mark on the wooden post with the dagger and walked to the other side of the forge. Predictably, the black blade found its target.

“Show off,” muttered Gendry, managing a smile.

Arya sat up on his work table as he chipped away at the dragonglass. She watched him working intently before speaking.

“Daenerys wants to legitimise you.”

Gendry stopped. He didn’t want his shaking hands to ruin the weapon.

“Won’t it be easier if she kept me a bastard?” he asked, managing to keep the panic from his voice.

“It’s politics,” explained Arya. “With you on her side, she has the Stormlands and she seems reasonable to the other Lords. Not to mention she’s got a rival for the throne out of the way.”

Gendry silently put Arya’s deductions on the list of shit he would have realised sooner if he’d actually been taught any of this highborn crap.

“I can’t even read, Arya,” he said quietly.

“You’ll learn,” she said. “You’re not completely thick.”

“Oh, _cheers._ ”

Arya touched his arm briefly.

“You’ll be fine, Gendry,” she said firmly. “The Stormlands will be lucky to have you.”

She set him at ease, as she always had. Arya was no liar. Gendry relaxed slightly.

“What did the Queen mean when she said you were a Faceless Man?” he asked.

Arya smiled bitterly and hopped down from his bench.

“If I tell you, you’ll leave again.”

That stung, rightfully so. Gendry steeled himself.

“Try me,” he said with a little bravado.

She searched his face for a lie or weakness and apparently found none.

“The Faceless Men are assassins in Braavos who follow the God of Death,” she said. “Jaqen was one of them. They trained me but I left. I came home.”

That wasn’t the whole story. It didn’t justify Arya’s hesitance. Or how she couldn’t quite meet his eye.

“And then?” prompted Gendry

“I killed the Freys. Every male Frey in Westeros.”

She may have been discussing the weather.

Gendry felt strangely calm. He had heard about the Red Wedding. He’d feared that Arya had perished there too, but there was no mention of her. He’d clung onto hope. Surely the monsters who had slaughtered her family would gloat if they’d killed yet another Stark.

“How?” was all he responded with.

“I killed Black Walder and Lame Lothar first,” said Arya mechanically. “They had killed my brother’s wife and my mother. I carved them up, baked them into a pie and fed it to old Walder Frey. I sliced off Walder’s face and wore it when I poisoned the rest of his sons.”

Gendry’s first, ridiculous thought was that Arya had paid enough attention to Hot Pie’s rambling that she’d managed to cook two grown men into a pie. His second thought was of his mother, and the stories she’d tell him. Stories of those who would break guest rite.

“Like… like the Rat Cook?” asked Gendry. “The story?”

Arya nodded. Gendry took a breath.

“Good.”

Arya looked up sharply.

“…what?”

“Those fuckers had it coming,” said Gendry dismissively. “You’re Arya Stark of Winterfell. You were always a wolf. You’ve just got better at it, is all.”

She let out a small, breathy laugh. On sudden impulse, Gendry leaned in towards her. Arya closed the distance.

*

Arya almost walked straight into Bran, who was being pushed out of Sansa’s solar by Brienne. She ignored the concerned look Brienne gave her, mumbled her apologies, and strode inside.

At some point, she had stopped thinking of this room as her father’s solar. Sansa was always trapped in there, with one scroll or another, or a basket of sewing if it was too cold in the Godswood. Today she was making warm coats, sewing furs together in the wildling style.

“Word from the smiths?” asked Sansa without looking up, her fingers working deftly.

“We’ll have blades for every fighter in Winterfell,” said Arya rapidly. “We might run out of arrow heads during the siege. The smiths are wrapping arrows with tar. It won’t do for White Walkers but they’ll take down wrights well enough.”

Sansa stopped sewing and gave Arya a look she usually reserved for Jon.

“What?” asked the younger girl defensively.

“You’ve got soot on your face.”

Arya swore and rubbed at her mouth. Sansa watched her younger sister, amused, until Arya stopped and scowled.

“There’s nothing on my face, is there?”

“Nothing more than usual.”

“How did you know about Gendry?” snapped Arya.

“I know everything.”

“…Bran told you.”

“Bran told me.”

Arya didn’t want to be defensive. She didn’t know _why_ she was being defensive. Sansa wasn’t scolding her, for once. She was sure this was a perfectly normal conversation between sisters that the two of them were simply not used to having.

“Shouldn’t you be more worried about the hordes of the undead coming to kill us all?” she asked half-heartedly.

“Jon is courting a Dragon,” said Sansa, finishing up a seam on her garment. “You are stealing kisses in the forge with Robert Baratheon’s only surviving son. I have to manage many things at once.”

“Daenerys isn’t a threat to Gendry,” mumbled Arya. “She wants to legitimise him.”

Sansa frowned slightly, pondering the Queen’s motives, and then nodded.

“A suitable match then.”

“ _Fucking_ _hells_.”

“Sorry.”

“We’ve got bigger problems,” said Arya rapidly. “I don’t even know if… never mind all that.”

A small, teasing smirk was dancing at the corner of Sansa’s mouth, but she hid it away. In another life, her older sister would have teased her over boys and crushes. But, there was no time. Instead, Arya fetched the bow and quiver that Sansa kept in the corner of her room.

“Come on. You’ve been stuck in this solar for hours,” said Arya, holding out the weapon for her sister. “You’ll never get any better if you don’t practise.”

Sansa made a face very much like Arya did when their mother made her practise sewing.

“You sound like Septa Mordane,” Sansa mumbled, taking her bow and getting up to join her.

Arya sulked all the way to the courtyard.

*

Sandor stared.

“Hey,” said Arya casually, as though the last time they’d spoken hadn’t involved her robbing him and leaving him for dead.

He chose to ignore her. Jenny, the slightly smaller hound, sniffed his hand and let Sandor pass. He stood beside Arya and watched Sansa nock a bow with delicate fingers and draw the arrow back to her cheek. She’d apparently done this before.

“What the f-what are you doing?” asked Sandor.

“Jon ordered every man, woman and child to drill with weapons,” said Sansa, without taking her eye off the target.

Sansa let out a slow breath and released. She hit the target but fell short of the centre. The strength in her arms and back failed her.

“Better,” said Arya appreciatively.

“Not good enough,” muttered Sansa, picking out another arrow.

It was good that she was aware of her shortcomings. Better that she was willing to learn.

“Wasn’t much good at archery myself,” he muttered. “Better with melee weapons.”

“I tried a sword,” said Sansa wryly. “Arya was kind enough not to laugh.”

“Try a crossbow.”

Sansa frowned and turned to look at him.

“A crossbow,” she repeated slowly.

An image of Sansa pleading for her life in the throne room came to Sandor’s mind unbidden.

“Fuck,” he muttered under his breath. “I didn’t mean like Joffrey.”

Sansa’s expression softened.

“I know you didn’t.”

Sandor strode towards the weapons and picked out a light crossbow that Sansa could load herself. Some weapon that the Unsullied had brought from across the Narrow Sea.

“Here,” he said gruffly, all but shoving it into her hands. “Try it.”

Arya showed her sister how to load the crossbow and helped her adjust her grip. Sansa did better this time. Managing to hit closer to centre.

“They take a while to load,” warned Arya. “Keep an dragonglass dagger on you.”

“Aye,” said Sandor. “You… It’s good that you’re-”

“Lady Sansa!” came a cry from across the yard.

Sansa stopped and immediately handed Arya the crossbow. Some green boy ran across the training yard towards them.

“What’s happened, Ned?” asked Sansa.

“Greyjoy banners,” said the boy breathlessly. “Heading this way.”

Immediately Sansa gathered her skirts and hurried away. The dogs followed her.

“Thank you, Sandor,” she said as she left.

Sandor made a gruff noise of acknowledgement and watched as she disappeared. When he finally turned around, he noticed Arya giving him a very irritating, knowing look.

He picked up a snowball and flung it at her. Arya dodged easily, a smirk playing on her lips.

*

The Northern archers were already arming themselves by the time Sansa reached the battlements.

“Greyjoys, my Lady,” said the Northern watchman in a panic. “Theon Turncloak is among them.”

“Don’t call him that,” said Sansa. “Open the gate.”

“...sorry, my Lady?”

“This branch of House Greyjoy are allies of our Queen,” she said firmly. “Open the gate.”

Sansa rushed to the courtyard; Jenny, Florian and Jonquil at her side. Theon and his sister rode through the gates first. The other Greyjoys followed. They were a rough, unpleasant looking group.

Sansa ignored them and went to greet Theon.

“Welcome home,” she said softly.

Theon allowed her to pull him into a warm embrace. It would have been considered impropriety in less dangerous times. Sansa didn’t care. He wasn’t so thin anymore. He’d been skin and bone when Sansa had seen him last.

When he let go, Theon frowned slightly at the dogs at her side. Sansa cursed herself for not thinking to keep the dogs in the kennel but, to her surprise, Theon held out his hand. Jonquil readily sniffed at him, wagging her tail. The others followed suit.

“Really, Sansa?” asked Theon dryly.

He almost sounded like his old self. Almost. Sansa found herself smiling.

“They were won over with table scraps,” she said a little apologetically.

“Are you saying I would have had more luck against the Bolton bastard if I showed up with a smoked ham?” asked Theon’s sister incredulously.

Sansa studied the older girl. She reminded her strikingly of Arya, dressed in armour and breeches. Unlike Arya, she seemed to prefer axes.

Her trust of Theon did not extend to his sister.

“Quite possibly,” said Sansa, her tone measured. “Welcome to Winterfell, Lady Yara.”

“Queen Yara,” corrected the elder Greyjoy.

Sansa blinked.

“Daenerys gave you the Iron Islands?” she asked, unable to hide her surprise.

“I thought she was fucking your brother,” asked Yara crassly. “You didn’t get the North?”

“... a formal arrangement is yet to be reached, your Grace,” said Sansa evenly. “We’re dealing with the undead hordes first. I’ll have tents prepared for your men. Provided they behave themselves.”

There was a hint of a threat there. Yara raised her eyebrow. She seemed, Sansa noted, a little impressed.

“No more reaving or raping,” said Yara reassuringly. “Daenerys’ conditions for independence.”

“Good,” said Sansa coolly. “The midday meal will be ready soon.”

“We have more food for your stores,” said Yara, gesturing to the carts behind them. “A gift from Euron. Call them reparations.”

Sansa’s face betrayed how grateful she was for that news. Before Sansa could thank Yara, she noticed Theon flinching. She followed his gaze and saw Brienne wheeling Bran towards them.

Bran didn’t acknowledge Theon at all. The Three Eyed Raven had other concerns.

“You need to call the council, Sansa,” said Bran. “It’s happened.”

*

Sansa called the war council. She looked pale to Jon, even if her shoulders were squared and her voice was clear and confident.

“Bran had a vision,” said Sansa. “The Wall has fallen. The dead are coming for us now.”

Cold dread filled Jon to his bones. The same dread he felt in Hardholm. His scars ached. _Tormund. Edd._ He’d sent his friends to their deaths.

“The damned thing is eight hundred feet tall,” said Royce. “It can’t just fall.”

Sansa looked at Daenerys. Jon could see the fear in her eyes now. Fear and… sorrow. Daenerys understood first.

“Viserion,” whispered Daenerys.

Tyrion cursed under his breath. Jon had seen what the dragons were capable of. The notion of one of Daenery’s children enthralled to the Night King was horrifying.

Jon touched her hand under the table. She closed her eyes briefly and opened them, full of resolve. Her strength burning for all to see.

“How long to we have?” Daenerys asked Sansa.

Sansa swallowed and kept speaking.

“A week. Two if we’re lucky,” said Sansa. “I’ve given the order to clear out the crypts.”

Jon had been avoiding it. Avoiding thinking about it.

But still. _But still._

“Father,” he breathed. “ _Rickon_.”

“I saw what happened to Robb,” said Arya coldly. “Better we burn them.”

Jon managed to nod. He would not allow the Night King to desecrate his ancestors.

“Have Wolkan send ravens to all the remaining houses of Westeros,” said Jon shakily. “Tell them the Wall has fallen and dead are heading South.”

Sansa nodded. Two carved dragons were on the war table, next to the tokens that represented their forces. Tyrion pulled out a third carved dragon from a pouch at his side. Evidently, he had been hiding it from Daenerys since she had returned from the wall.

“They have one dragon,” said Tyrion quietly, placing the figure before the map of Winterfell. “We have two. They have hundreds of thousands of soldiers. We have a little over fifty thousand and the Lannister forces.”

“They don’t eat or sleep,” added Sansa. “We have enough food for months siege. Maester Wolkan is preparing medicines to treat the injured.”

“Men need sleep,” said Tyrion, his shoulders sagging.

“The Dead can wait us out,” said Davos, running his hand through his hair. “This is shaping up like the Siege of Storm’s End.”

The door to the war room opened suddenly. Ned Umber, who had been running errands for Wolkan, scrambled inside and managed not to flinch too much at the sight of Daenerys.

“I’m sorry to interrupt Lady Sansa but it’s urgent,” said the boy, handing her the note.

Sansa read the note quickly. Her face fell.

“It’s from Ser Jaime,” she said. “Cersei is not sending troops.”

Most of the heads at the table turned to Tyrion, who looked like Sansa had slapped him. Daenerys froze. Her grief turned to anger.

“Ser Jaime has freed my Uncle Edmure,” Sansa continued. “He’s heading North with the remaining Tully forces and what little Lannister soldiers were there.

“How many?” asked Daenerys.

“Two hundred men,” said Sansa. “Including the Tullys.”

The thousands of troops they expected, now less than three hundred. The dead silence that followed was eventually broken by Tyrion.

“Forgive me, your Grace,” he whispered.

“You assured me...” said Daenerys, her voice shaking. “You _know_ her, Tyrion. What could she have possibly said-”

“She is with child.”

Even Varys was surprised by that. Lady Brienne became very still and looked down. 

“She brought up me killing her other children,” said Tyrion dully. “I thought to try and save this one. I was a fool.”

Daenerys’ anger left her at once. Tyrion pushed himself down from his chair, pale and miserable.

Jon felt for him. There was no chance of negotiating with Cersei now. No chance that this would end in anything but death. He knew what it was to have divided loyalties.

“Excuse me,” murmured Tyrion.

*

Daenerys watched Tyrion leave. She wanted to go after him by her legs felt like lead. _Mhysa, indeed. The Night King has made a slave of my own child._

“Your Grace,” said Lady Brienne suddenly. “Despite his reputation, Ser Jaime is an honourable man. He will keep his word.”

Lord Royce scoffed. The armoured woman hadn’t spoken a word to Daenerys since her arrival. Now she spoke on behalf of the Kingslayer, of all people. She didn’t strike Daenerys as naive or foolish. The shrewd Lady Sansa valued her counsel.

Daenerys had faced Ser Jaime on the battlefield. No one could doubt his courage but Daenerys knew the extremes he would go to secure victory for Cersei. She would have to make her own judgement. Daenerys nodded to acknowledge Lady Brienne's words, made her excuses and left the war room to seek out Tyrion.

He hadn’t gone far. Daenerys found him in one of the nearby room, sitting by the fire, reading a heavy tome from the citadel. Siege tactics used by the Ghiscari Empire. There was no room to be idle, even if you were brooding. She sat down beside him as he read.

“Cersei tried to have me killed,” said Tyrion, unable to lift his head from the pages and look her in the eye. “She tormented me my whole life. She blamed me for the death of my own mother. I thought this would be easier.”

That was something Daenerys could understand.

“Viserys blamed me for the death of our mother,” she said. “He tormented me my whole life. He threatened my child. I named a dragon for him.”

Tyrion looked up then, painfully hopeful.

“Cersei must answer for her crimes,” she said firmly, “but I will do everything in my power to ensure the survival of her child. You have my word.”

“The babe is a threat to you,” said Tyrion, the words drawn unwillingly from his mouth.

Daenerys thought back to her childhood. To knives and poison and fear.

“I was a babe deemed a threat once.”

Tyrion let out a bitter laugh.

“Look at you now,” he said dryly. “Harmless as a kitten.”

The Mother of Dragons had to concede that point. But the notion of striking against an unborn child was utterly repellent to her. _Rhaego would have been six. She had carried him under her heart._

“I am not Robert,” said Daenerys. “Or Aerys.”

“I know.”

Daenerys hesitated.

“Do you?” she asked, hating how unsure she sounded. How afraid.

“It wasn’t you that I feared,” said Tyrion and Daenerys thought of the vengeful Tyrells and Martells she had so eagerly called to her side. “I’m sorry about Viserion, your Grace.”

Daenerys blinked quickly. _The Blood of the Dragon did not weep._

“You warned me not to go North,” she said softly.

“If you had listened, Jon Snow would be dead,” said Tyrion, shaking his head. “Who knows where we’d be then?”

The thought of losing Jon Snow hurt almost as much as the thought of losing her children. The strength of that feeling surprised her.

“Come, my Lord Hand,” she said finally. “We have work to do.”

*

There were a dozen Crows left alive and twice as many wildlings. They’d only managed to save a few from Mole’s Town before the dead had swarmed it. Two whores, a butcher and his wife and a single farm hand.

Everyone else was gone.

“He’s holding his dragon back,” said Tormund, as they trudged through the snow. “More corpses for his army rather than ash.”

“That’s a fucking relief,” said the Crow in charge, Edd, sarcastically. “It’s just all the other dead things we have to run from.”

“What’s that ahead?” asked one of the other Crows. A weedy, dark haired man Tormund hadn’t learned the name of in between trying not to die.

Edd frowned.

“We won’t reach Winterfell for another… oh, _fuck_.”

The shadows in the distance, hidden by the stinging, blizzard winds, were stones. A graveyard.

Some of the shadows were not stones. They were shifting. Moving towards them.

“Run,” hissed Tormund. “ _Run_.”


	4. Dusk: Part Four

No one was quite sure where to look as Roslin Tully cautiously approached the formerly deposed Lord of Riverrun.

Edmure hesitated before coming forward to meet her. As though he was approaching a skittish animal and not his lady wife. Roslin managed a clumsy curtsy, hindered slightly by her son. The red haired boy clinging to her skirts reminded Jaime strikingly of Brandon Stark.

Jaime had seen that expression before. On Queen Rhaella Targaryen when her husband came near. Roslin seemed to be waiting for accusations. Screams. A blow, even. Instead, Edmure gave her a weak smile.

“You’re looking well, my Lady,” he said softly.

Roslin relaxed slightly and managed half a smile in return. Edmure crouched down and laid eyes on his son for the first time. Jaime was sure that, until his older kin had been mysteriously poisoned, the Tully boy had grown up surrounded by harsh men and harsh words. Still, the boy judged Edmure as relatively non-threatening and took a step forward, one hand still clinging to his mother.

“Hello,” said Edmure gently.

“…‘lo,” mumbled the boy.

“What’s your name?”

“Walder.”

Roslin winced. So did all the men in hearing distance.

“Fucking hells,” muttered Bronn, and Jaime couldn’t help but agree. _The Late Walder Frey was more than enough of a cunt to name the little Tully after himself._

Edmure, with more restraint than Jaime thought him capable of, managed to hide his unease and smiled.

“It is a pleasure to meet you, Walder,” he said. “May I borrow your mother for a moment?”

Apparently, Edmure did not want the first conversation with his son to involve terrifying him with tales of the dead. Which, in Jaime’s opinion, was fair. Bronn took that as his cue and stepped forward. The man had never shown any fondness for children in all the time Jaime had known him, but apparently this situation was enough for him to take pity on the Tullys.

“My name is Ser Bronn of the Blackwater,” he said, boasting even now. “We can go meet the horses, if you’d like, young man?”

Walder hesitated, but not many little boys would turn down the chance of visiting real war horses with a real knight. Roslin glanced at Jaime, waiting for him to nod his assurance, then leaned down.

“Go on,” she said in her son’s ear.

Walder rushed up to follow Bronn, leaving Edmure and Roslin to gaze mournfully at each other, while Jaime fiddled with his hand.

“I’m so sorry,” blurted Roslin in a rush. “I didn’t know-”

Edmure put up a hand to stop her.

“None of it was your doing,” he said firmly.

Roslin let out a ragged breath. A weight lifted off her shoulders. She did, Jaime admitted, look lovely.

“How… how are you even _here_?” she breathed.

“I released him,” said Jaime, finding his voice.

Roslin frowned at Jaime, the son of Tywin Lannister and her father’s apparent ally, uncomprehending.

“The White Walkers march on Westeros,” Jaime continued. There was no point in softening the blow.

Roslin said nothing for the longest time. Disbelief was etched on her features.

“They’re just stories,” she said slowly.

“I’m afraid not, my Lady,” said Jaime. “The Starks are not known for japes... and I’ve seen them with my own eyes. They need all the men we can muster.”

Roslin glanced at the Lannister and Tully men waiting to cross. Barely an army.

“And these are all the men that the Queen sent,” she said.

“My Lady-”

“Ser Jaime, did the Queen order you to free Lord Tully?”

“No.”

Fear returned to Roslin’s features again. Jaime was committing treason and, if the Freys allowed them to pass, they would be complicit in that treason. Cersei was not known for her mercy or forgiveness. She had murdered allies and enemies alike at the Sept of Balor.

“I must aid my nieces, Roslin,” said Edmure. “They are all of my sister I have left.”

Roslin took a deep breath, but when she spoke, her voice was clear. Certain.

“I’ll lower the bridge,” she said. “We have no soldiers to send with you, Ser Jaime… but we have warm cloaks, and a little grain and salted meat.”

Edmure slumped with relief.

“I know what you risk by helping us-”

“You are my husband,” said Roslin, with quiet determination.

The look of naked adoration on Edmure’s face made Jaime feel something that was either envy or admiration. _Beautiful_ , _hateful_ _Cersei would not have risked as much for his sake._

“When I return… I would like to make your better acquaintance,” said Edmure shakily. “And our son. If that is agreeable to you?”

Jaime doubted Roslin Tully had been given much of a choice in anything in her life. Her eyes turned glassy and she smiled, more freely than she had before.

“I would like that very much,” she said, barely over a whisper.

The image of the creature Snow brought South, lunging out of its crate came to mind unbidden. The chance of Edmure Tully, or any of them for that matter, making it home alive was an uncertainty at best. They had no time to linger and yet…

“It’s a long ride to Winterfell,” said Jaime. “We need to... water the horses.”

Edmure gave Jaime a painfully hopeful look. They had been enemies for years, but even this small boon was enough to win the respect of Catelyn Tully’s little brother.

“Can we afford to delay?” asked Edmure.

“Not for long. Spend a moment with your son,” said Jaime. “You’ll regret it if you don’t.” _As I do._

“You should speak to him, my Lord,” added Roslin. “He… he knows who you are.”

Carefully, gently, Edmure took Roslin’s hand and pressed a kiss to her knuckles.

“ _Thank you._ ”

Jaime and Roslin watched Edmure go after Bronn and little Walder. She let out a small sob as soon as he was out of earshot.

Jaime could not be sure she loved him. Not after so short an acquaintance. But Edmure Tully had undoubtedly shown her the one kindness, the one taste of freedom, Walder Frey’s daughter had ever experienced.

Perhaps that was enough.

“Can… can I do anything for you, my Lady?” asked Jaime, wishing he could say something less inadequate.

“You cannot guarantee he will survive.”

Jaime paused.

“I will look out for him on the battlefield as best I can,” he conceded.

Roslin nodded in acceptance, and wiped her eyes hastily with her sleeve.

“If you would, Ser Jaime,” she said slowly, “tell Lady Sansa she has our thanks for avenging Walda. And… tell Lady Arya that my step mother sends her warmest regards.”

With that, Roslin left to organise their supplies and left Jaime quite stunned. _Lady Roslin Tully had some steel in her._

*

The would-be Lord of Riverrun barely said a word until they could see Winterfell in the distance. A point of grey, surrounded by plains of white snow. The horribly familiar cry of a dragon carried across the fields.

“What are the chances you won’t get eaten by a dragon?” asked Bronn. “Or a direwolf?”

“Tyrion is in there,” said Jaime brightly. “It’ll be fine. Probably.”

“You kept your word, Lannister,” said Edmure firmly. “The Starks have honour.”

“From what I heard, the Starks got over that shit quickly after Ned and Robb lost their heads,” retorted Bronn.

Edmure had no response to that. They continued forward.

The gates of Winterfell opened as soon as they reached them. Lady Sansa was waiting for them. She was not the same girl who had been so cowed by Joffrey in King’s Landing. She’d grown cold and proud in womanhood. A true Stark.

The elusive Lady Arya stood by her side. Her hand rested on the hilt of a thin blade. Alarmingly, Littlefinger’s dagger was also at her hip. Of the two Stark girls she resembled Ned the most, but there was a stillness to her that Ned did not possess. Something unnerving.

Ned Stark’s bastard, the former King of the North, stood behind his half sisters. That damnable Stark pride and boyish stubbornness had been replaced by the weariness of men who fought too many wars. Propriety dictated that Jon Snow, Warden of the North, should have been first to greet them, but Lady Catelyn had detested the boy. Perhaps Snow thought it a slight to her memory if he was first to greet her brother.

“Welcome to Winterfell, Uncle Edmure,” said Sansa, dipping into a curtsy.

Edmure dismounted and drank in the sight of his niece. One of his few living kin.

“You look like Cat,” he said thickly.

Sansa managed a smile, not betraying too much emotion. Edmure turned to his younger niece.

“Arya,” he said. “It is a relief to see you well. You look as fierce as your mother said you were.”

It was a fairly diplomatic way to acknowledge the leather armour and the weapons. A half smile twitched at the corner of her mouth.

“It’s nice to finally meet you, Uncle,” said Arya.

Edmure noticed Catelyn’s stepson lurking behind his sisters.

“Lord S-Jon,” said Edmure awkwardly, with a slight bow of his head. “Thank you for protecting my nieces.”

Snow returned the gesture.

“We protect each other,” he said. “Thank you for coming to our aide, Lord Edmure.”

The elder Stark girl lost her smile and turned her gaze to Jaime. The icy disapproval of the Starks and the cold hatred of her mother was etched on pretty, delicate features. _If only Joffery were capable of civility, she might have hated him less._

“It’s been a long time, Ser Jaime,” said Lady Sansa. “We were not so well acquainted at Kings Landing.”

The polite words of a noblewoman of Westeros, but Lady Sansa’s tone conveyed everything. _You’re in our territory now, Kingslayer._ Edmure picked up on the threatening overtones and put himself between Jaime and the Starks. _A pointless gesture. The younger Stark girl was looking at him like a wolf eyeing their next meal._

“Ser Jaime freed my men and I,” said Edmure quickly. “Against Cersei’s wishes.”

The Lady of Winterfell glanced at the men outside her gates, half of which had spent the better part of five years imprisoned or labouring for the Lannisters. The other half were very nervous Lannister soldiers entering a wolf’s den. Or dragon’s lair.

Sansa’s expression did not soften. Her Uncle’s words left her unaffected.

“The rightful Queen wishes to speak with you, Ser Jaime,” said Sansa coldly. “You have much to explain.”

*

The Kingslayer was not what Daenerys had pictured.

He may have been a handsome, golden knight once, but now he just looked _tired_. Still, he stood before her proud. Not unafraid, but unyielding. His shoulders squared and chin tilted defiantly. He ignored the hostility from the Northerners, many of whom Daenerys suspected were hoping she’d sentence the Kingslayer to dragon fire.

He did glance at Lady Brienne, who had defended him so fiercely at the council. A fleeting look.

Tyrion sat by her side, shoulders rigid, nails digging into his palms. He seemed to be silently pleading with the Kingslayer not to be hostile or glib. A reversal of his trial in King’s Landing, no doubt. _He loved him more than he was willing to admit._

“Tyrion told me tales of my father,” said Daenerys, her voice ringing through the hall. “He told me that Aerys intended to burn King’s Landing to the ground before you stopped him.”

The Kingslayer looked startled at that. _Good. She had wiped the Lannister smugness from his face._

Ser Jaime was not the only one surprised. Jon looked at her sharply. The Northerners whispered amongst themselves. The tale was not common knowledge. Daenerys doubted a proud lion like the Kingslayer would have tried to justify his actions to the rest of Westeros.

“A king who slaughters his own people is unworthy of the throne,” she continued quietly. “I killed the Masters of Meereen for less. Was my mother also mad?”

The shock on the Kingslayer’s face made way for another emotion. Regret. He struggled to find his words.

“No,” said Ser Jaime finally. “She was a kind woman.”

“Rhaenys Targaryen was what, three? A bit early to see signs of madness,” continued Daenerys, anger creeping into her words. “Aegon was still at his mother’s breast, but that Targaryen madness... I suppose they all had to die.”

“No, they didn’t,” said the Kingslayer quietly.

“You swore to protect them,” she almost shouted.

“I failed.”

Daenerys saw a little of Tyrion in him then. _Terrible children of terrible fathers._ Her anger still burned but not all of it was directed at the Kingslayer. She leaned back into her seat.

“Why have you come, Ser Jaime?” she asked. “Your Queen had no intention of sending you North.”

“I made an oath,” said the Kingslayer. “To come North and help face the White Walkers. I intend to fight.”

The Northerners did not take kindly to that. Their voices grew louder and angrier.

“You aren’t known for keeping your oaths, _Kingslayer_ ,” snarled Lord Glover.

Edmure opened his mouth but before he could speak, Lady Brienne stood forward, blue eyes gleaming with determination.

“Ser Jaime kept his oath to Catelyn Stark,” she said loudly. “And freed Lord Edmure.”

“Brienne speaks truely,” said Sansa, her words silencing the Northerners before they could direct their anger to the Maid of Tarth. “I would not be here otherwise.”

Daenerys glanced at Lady Sansa. Her words seemed more in defence of her swornshield than Ser Jaime. She had given the Kingslayer a far frostier welcome than the Mother of Dragons had received.

The younger Stark sister was less restrained.

“He crippled Bran,” said Arya sharply. “How can we trust a thing he says?”

“Ser Jaime is telling the truth.”

The Northerners fell silent as Bran Stark entered the Hall and pushed himself forward. The proud lion seemed to shrink a little. _Guilt. He had throw Jon’s little brother from a tower._

Lady Brienne rushed to help the last of Eddard Stark’s’ trueborn sons to the dais to sit by his siblings.

She looked a little terrified by his arrival. Her hands shook. _She feared for the Kingslayer._

“He deserted Cersei,” continued Bran. “Even when threatened by the Mountain. He means to keep his oath.”

The Kingslayer looked utterly bewildered by that. He clearly did not know of Bran’s gifts. _Cersei’s false Maester was slacking._

“Why would he do that?” asked Sansa with a delicate frown.

The Three Eyed Raven turned that unfathomable, piercing gaze to the Kingslayer. Ser Jaime stood there, transfixed. Unable to look away or even _breathe_.

“The things you do for love.”

The Kingslayer flinched. Daenerys glanced Lady Brienne, so fearful for the dishonoured knight. _Perhaps, it was not Cersei he rode North for._

Lord Manderly got abruptly to his feet. Daenerys remembered that his son had perished during the War of Five Kings.

“He broke guest rite and tried to murder the son of his host,” said Lord Manderly. “The North Remembers.”

The shouts from the Northerners grew loud. Too loud. They loved Eddard too well to let this injustice go. Even Jon and Sansa could not calm them.

“I remember what happened that day,” said Bran.

His voice carried through the hall, even without shouting. He sounded ancient. Otherworldly. The Northerners fell silent.

Tyrion held his breath. The Kingslayer closed his eyes and waited for the axe to fall.

“My mother always told me not to climb,” said Bran. “A brick came loose. I fell. An accident.”

A lie. Bran may have been carved from stone, but Daenerys could read Ser Jaime’s face well enough.

“L-Lord Bran-” began Lord Royce, spluttering.

“I am not a Lord,” said Bran. “I am the Three Eyed Raven.”

“You heard my brother,” said Sansa. “Ser Jaime is innocent.”

Daenerys highly doubted the Lady of Winterfell believed a word of Bran’s story. She was willing to go along with it for the sake of a united front. Jon, ever an open book, looked conflicted for a moment. Daenerys knew how well he loved his brother.

But he stood and addressed his people.

“The Wall has fallen. The dead will be at Winterfell soon,” said Jon. “We’re not in a position to turn away able bodied men because of past grudges.” _The Northerners had chosen well and so had she._

“The Wall has _fallen_?” repeated Ser Jaime incredulously.

“It has,” said Daenerys, “and, as Cersei has undoubtedly surmised, the Night King commands one of my children. I think you remember what a dragon is capable of on the battlefield.”

The horrified look on Ser Jaime’s face told her that he remembered very well. Daenerys had been holding back and aiming for the carts. Men burned regardless. The Night King would show no such restraint.

With that, the crowds dispersed. Daenerys stood and walked out with Jorah, Grey Worm and Missandei. She noticed Tyrion lingering behind.

“Go greet your brother, Tyrion,” said Daenerys.

“Thank you, your Grace,” said her Hand solemnly.

“Is that wise, your Grace?” asked Jorah when Tyrion was out of earshot.

“I may not trust Ser Jaime, but I trust Tyrion,” she replied.

Wisdom would be to trust no one, as Lady Sansa did. But Jon was right. At such times as these, they had little choice.

*

The Dragon Queen dismissed his brother and Tyrion hurried towards him as quickly as he was able. Jaime waited for him, still reeling from Bran’s actions. From Snow’s words.

“It’s good to see you,” said Tyrion.

_He murdered our father,_ said a voice in his head that sounded suspiciously like Cersei.

_Our father would have murdered him_ , said another voice. His own. Jaime could understand, even if he could not forgive. _It would not hurt so much if he did not love his brother so well._

“You too,” said Jaime genuinely. “The Lannister soldiers that Daenerys captured at Highgarden-”

“They’re here,” reassured Tyrion. “They prefer camping with the Wildlings than the Northerners.”

Jaime looked at the door Bran and his younger sister had disappeared through.

“Why did Bran lie?”

“You’ll have to ask him,” said Tyrion. “I for one, am grateful he did. He has visions now. He sees past, present and future.”

“Like Maggy the Frog?” said Jaime skeptically.

“He’s been right so far,” shrugged Tyrion.

With that, his little brother went after his Queen. Jaime rushed to speak with Bran.

They had not gone far. In fact, it looked like they had stopped to wait for him. If Brandon Stark’s gaze could be described as intense, the look Arya Stark was giving him was something else entirely. Those cold eyes promised nothing but death.

Bran said something to his sister that Jaime could not hear. She nodded and headed back towards the keep, walking passed Jaime as she did so.

“Lady Frey wishes to convey her gratitude,” said Jaime, before she left.

Arya stopped, raised her eyebrow a little and smiled. It was _highly_ unsettling.

“I hope she’s doing well,” she said genuinely.

“Sending a Braavosi assassin for the Freys was a bit of a departure from Ned’s usual tactics.”

Righteous Eddard Stark would hardly approve of such a thing, but Arya seemed completely untroubled by this.

“You think I sent an assassin?” she asked, amused.

“You didn’t?”

“Starks don’t _send their regards_ , Ser Jaime,” smiled Lady Arya. “We do the deed ourselves.”

_Fuck_. “I see.”

Arya left, still smiling, and Jaime found himself face to face with the child he had thrown out of a tower. Almost a man grown now. His boyish features had turned sharp and had that Northern coarseness to them.

“I’ve never seen a Stark lie so convincingly.”

Bran only tilted his head slightly.

“I wouldn’t be so sure.”

“The men in that room trust your word,” continued Jaime, his voice getting louder with guilt, frustration, _something_. “The word of a Stark. You’ll never get justice for what I did to you.”

“It was necessary,” was all Bran said.

The boy sounded so _distant._ Not the joyful child that had been beneath Jaime’s notice all those years ago.

“A Lannister always repays their debts,” said Jaime, “but I find myself at a loss.”

Something crossed Bran’s features. The first show of emotion Jaime had seen in him. He no longer seemed otherworldly. Jaime’s guilt was mirrored in the last of Eddard Stark’s trueborn sons.

“The debt has been paid,” he said quietly. “By a boy named Wylis. He wanted to be a knight... just like Bran did.”

With that, Bran wheeled himself away. Jaime watched as he disappeared into the Godswood.

“Ser Jaime.”

He managed not to startle like a green squire and turned to face the taciturn Warden of the North, Jon Snow.

“I never thanked you,” said Ned’s bastard solemnly.

“I made an oath,” said Jaime sharply. “You don’t need to thank me for upholding it.”

“Not for that,” said Snow. “You tried to warn me before I joined the Night’s Watch.”

Jaime froze. Snow gave him a wry smile.

“A green boy swearing his life away,” he said. “I’m sure you were just trying to help.”

“Caught on did you?” snapped Jaime. “Brighter than most Starks. Your mother must have been much smarter than dear old Ned.”

The barb had no effect. The boy who had once bristled at being called a bastard was gone.

“Word of advice, Lannister,” said Snow calmly. “Something your brother taught me at the Wall. People won’t always assume the worst of you if you aren’t always being an arrogant fucker.”

Jaime blinked. The expression on Snow’s face was incredibly familiar but he couldn’t place it.

“It’s a terribly difficult habit to break,” said Jaime after a pause.

“I’m sure,” said Snow dryly. “Tell your men to set up camp near the Wildlings. The Lannister men that the Queen captured at Highgarden are there. It’ll be safer for them.”

Tyrion had already told Jaime as much, but he appreciated the courtesy. He nodded tersely and Snow left.

“Ser Jaime.”

_So he was to be accosted by every remaining Stark in Winterfell before the days end._ Jaime turned again and found Lady Sansa heading towards him with three rather enormous hunting dogs by her side. Brienne followed, a look of apprehension on her face.

But Lady Sansa did not rage or accuse. She only gestured to Widow’s Wail.

“May I?” she asked.

Jaime drew his sword, slowly, and held it out for her to inspect. Sansa’s fingers lightly brushed the blade. She ignored the golden pommel.

“Your sword needs a better name,” said Sansa.

Jaime could not argue with that. He returned the sword to its scabbard.

“Your Uncle’s wife, Lady Roslin, wanted to thank you,” he said. “For avenging her sister.”

One of the dogs, as if sensing his mistress’ mood, snapped at Jaime. He took a step back. Sansa put up a hand and the hound stilled.

“Lady Bolton was always courteous to me,” said Sansa. “Brienne, could you show Ser Jaime and his men to the tents?”

With that, the Lady of Winterfell left with her hounds, and Brienne and Jaime were alone in the courtyard. As they walked, Brienne opened her mouth to speak and then stopped. _You came,_ her eyes seemed to say. _You listened._

“That went better than I expected,” said Jaime, breaking the silence.

Brienne let out a breathy laugh. There were snowflakes on her hair. Sitting on her head like a crown.

“I was almost certain you’d say something glib and end up a dragon’s dinner.”

Jaime couldn’t help it. He smirked.

“Were you worried about me, Lady Brienne?”

Brienne made the _face_. Cross and embarrassed but not quite angry. It was no wonder the Dragon Queen and Lady Sansa trusted her word. She wore her heart on her sleeve.

“We need all the men we can muster,” said Brienne stiffly.

“A middle-aged, one-armed knight is hardly going to turn the tide of the battle.”

“How can you be so _smug_ and self-depreciating at the same time?”

“Family speciality,” said Jaime. “Lady Sansa has requested that I rename my sword. Widow’s Wail is lacking a little subtlety, I suppose.”

Brienne hesitated before speaking.

“Do you _want_ to change it?” she asked with compassion he did not deserve.

His son had named the blade. His cruel, vicious son he had not allowed himself to care for.

“Desperately,” said Jaime.

They walked passed the courtyard. Some of Daenerys’ men sparred diligently with the Northerners. A formidable force that would have given Jaime pause once. Considering what they were up against now, Jaime felt almost reassured. One of the men towered over the others and was hacking at a straw mannequin with single minded determination.

There were only a few men in Westeros so tall. He’d thought the man dead.

“Any ideas for naming a sword, Clegane?” asked Jaime.

Clegane gave him a look of deepest loathing and went back to decimating the straw mannequin. Brienne gave Jaime an exasperated look and kept walking. Jaime hurried after her.

“The sword was made from Ice,” she said. “Name it something Ned Stark would approve of.”

It was Jaime’s turn to give Brienne an exasperated look.

“I keep forgetting that you’ve never met Ned Stark,” said Jaime. “He didn’t approve of me in general.”

“What about Honour?”

“Already named my horse that.”

“It’s a wonder you and Ned Stark didn’t send each other love notes every week. What about Dawn?”

“Arthur Dane will come back to life and stab me,” said Jaime. “A scenario becoming increasingly likely as the days pass.”

“Redemption.”

“I’d sooner name it after Ned Stark’s cock.”

“Summer Sun,” said Brienne quickly, giving Jaime a disapproving look.

“Too Dornish.”

Brienne frowned slightly, her nose wrinkled in thought. Those blue eyes lit up and she smiled.

“Winter’s Bane,” she declared triumphantly.

_Not very subtle either_ , thought Jaime. _But she seems so fond of the name._

“Winter’s Bane,” he agreed, and smiled back.

_I’m glad you’re here,_ he wanted to say.

A poor choice of words given their circumstances. They went to meet Bronn outside the main gates. Jaime said nothing.

*

Bran wheeled himself to the small room that Wolkan was using as a medical store. Gilly was cutting linen strips into bandages. Sam pointedly refused to look at him and kept powdering and bottling willow bark. Little Sam was sleeping soundly on his surrogate father’s black cloak after a long day of picking herbs with his mother. He had learned their names faster than he had even picked up his letters.

“You’re avoiding, Jon,” said Bran.

Sam didn’t even look up. Gilly, a little afraid of Bran, seemed to shrink into her shawl.

“I’m helping Wolkan with the medical supplies,” said Sam quietly.

“It’s time, Sam.”

Sam would have slammed the pestle against the table in anger if Little Sam wasn’t asleep.

“You think that a week from the Night King arriving to kill us all is the right time to upend Jon’s entire worldview, permanently damage his relationship with everyone in his life and introduce a succession crisis?” he asked incredulously.

“He needs to know the truth,” said Bran. “Before the Night King reaches Winterfell.”

Sam’s shoulder’s sagged. He remembered the stories Jon had told him at the Wall. He’d envied Jon his kind father. _Sam may have been Trueborn, but he’d been less than a bastard in his father’s eyes._

Lord Stark called Jon son for all the world to see.

“All his life… he’s wanted nothing more than to be worthy of being called Ned Stark’s son,” said Sam miserably. “This will hurt him.”

“I know,” said Bran without feeling. “It must be done.”

Gilly put a comforting hand on Sam’s arm.

“Let Jon have one more night of peace,” she said gently. “Tell him in the morning.”

Sam managed a nod. The Three Eyed Raven was satisfied with that. He left Sam and Gilly alone.


	5. Dusk: Part Five

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Author’s Note:** Sorry for the delay but... it was a month. (And sorry for traumatising Laik in the comments.) I’m back at university so updates will be a little less frequent but they will happen. Or my beta reader/brother will send me judgmental messages.
> 
> There was a lot of fun discussions in the comments. I’m not sure my story will exactly reflect all that, but instead of Crouching Moron Hidden Dragon from season 8, Jon will have more than three lines.

Jon rose before dawn. Daenerys was already awake, lit by candlelight, braiding her hair in a more simple plait than usual. She apparently wanted to let Missandei sleep a little longer. Her tunic was black but with a grey, fur lining. It looked well on her.

Jon dressed quickly and joined her. He tucked a stray white curl back behind her ear and earned a smile.

“I… I should like to pay my respects,” said Daenerys, with a hint of uncertainty.

“Of course,” said Jon, touched.

A touch of relief appeared on her Valyrian features.

“The Northerners all speak so highly Eddard Stark,” she said. “He hardly seems real.”

Jon could understand her disbelief. His father had helped overthrow the Targaryens. He had served Robert Baratheon, whom Daenerys often called _Usurper_.

“There were none like him,” said Jon quietly. “I’ve tried to live up to father’s name... even if its not mine.”

“I could give you Lord Stark’s name.”

Jon froze.

Stannis Baratheon had offered to make him a Stark, a lifetime ago, but rigid King had the conquest of the North in mind. Jon had been a man of the Nights Watch, not the insecure boy who would have jumped at the chance.

That boy’s voice had faded long ago. Insecurities could not be dwelt upon when the fate of the realm was a stake.

_But still… still…_

Daenerys looked down, unsure as she had been at the Wall. Jon took her hand.

“Thank you,” he said heavily. “Truly. Being a Stark… a true Stark… is all I’ve ever wanted.”

“But?” asked Daenerys knowingly.

Jon shook his head.

“My father would not have wanted me to be legitimised.”

The admission hurt a little. Jon knew that his father loved him. He had no doubt. Every smile had confirmed it. Every affectionate gesture, every solemn reprimand. Those moments of approval, guidance, and warmth.

But he also knew that every time Lord Stark looked at him, his eyes were filled with shame.

“Don’t be so sure,” said Daenerys quietly. “You would never fight your siblings for succession. Lord Eddard would have known that.”

Jon said nothing. His father might have trusted him but the Northern Lords has already chosen him over Sansa once. His sister had taken the slight with more grace than he had deserved. _Lady Catelyn would have been furious._

Another motive for Daenerys’ suggestion occurred to him. One that made his heart jolt a little.

“Was… was this Tyrion’s idea?” asked Jon slowly.

“He suggested it,” admitted Daenerys. “We’ve not been terribly subtle.”

“It might not be _seemly_ for Queen to formally court a bastard,” said Jon wryly. “Even a former King.”

Daenerys scowled.

“Should anyone object, they’re welcome to bring their concerns to eldest male in my family,” she said primly.

“…Drogon?”

Daenerys bit back a smirk and, despite what had to be done today, Jon let out a breathy laugh. She always made him feel like that. _Lighter_. Seeing Daenerys astride her dragons gave Jon more hope for the future than he had ever had. He bit back the urge to kiss her soundly. Daenerys slipped her hand into the crook of his arm and they walked down together.

Sansa and Arya were already in the courtyard when they arrived. Even Theon was there. The pyre had been built. Men were carrying bones and laying them carefully on the straw.

“Where’s Bran?” asked Jon.

“In the Godswood,” said Arya, a little sharply. “The men brought most of the bones out but I thought…”

“We’ll bring Father and Rickon out ourselves,” said Jon. “It… It should be us.”

Arya nodded.

“We’ll left room next to Grandfather, Uncle Brandon and Aunt Lyanna,” she said. “They should be together.”

“Robb and mother are missing,” said Sansa quietly. “As is his crown. I thought… one of the training swords…”

The memory of young Robb helping him to his feet after knocking him down in the train yard came to mind. The memory had faded, but he had not forgotten the smile on his brother’s face.

“That’s perfect,” said Jon with a laugh.

Theon, who had been knocked to the ground by Robb as often as Jon had, managed a tired smile and placed Robb’s favourite training sword on the pyre. Jon shuffled slightly.

“Is there… something for Lady Catelyn?”

Sansa reached into her pocket and pulled out a small kerchief, yellow with age. An uneven attempt at blue fish was sewn into the corner with blue thread.

“I made this for her name day,” said Sansa quietly.

Jon remembered it. Sansa had since sewn much finer cloths, gowns and tunics worthy of high lords and royalty, but Catelyn had carried this scrap of fabric with her wherever she went. _Except South. She’d left it behind in her haste to warn her husband of so-called Lannister treachery._

“I don’t remember that,” said Arya softly.

“You were only little,” said Sansa. “Bran wasn’t even born yet.”

Arya made another face and Jon got the distinct impression that she was angry with their little brother. The Three Eyed Raven has greater concerns than digging up bones, old and new.

“We’d better hurry,” said Jon. “The days grow shorter.”

He gestured for Theon to follow them and his foster bother relaxed a little. Daenerys watched as they walked into the crypts together.

The crypts seemed much colder than even the icy courtyard. Arya and Bran had loved to explore the winding pathways, but Jon had not spent much time in the crypts, even as boy. The Starks were buried there and Jon was not a true Stark. Sansa had stayed away as well, but she no longer shied away from dust and darkness. She paused and glanced at a narrow passage that wasn’t even lit by torchlight.

“Arya, where does that tunnel led?” asked Sansa.

“It’s a dead end,” said Arya. “There’s nothing but stones.”

“On the other side of the stones?”

Arya frowned.

“I’ll have the builders check,” she said.

They continued down the darkened corridors and reached their destination. The statue Sansa had commissioned for Rickon was haphazardly made. Able bodied workmen could not be spared for long. Rickon had been practically a baby when they’d left. The grown boy they’d lost had been almost a stranger. Jon was ashamed to admit, he barely new if the statue was a true likeness or not.

Sansa whispered to Arya and touched Theon’s shoulder. Theon looked stricken for a moment, but walked forward. He whispered an apology to Rickon’s statue and carried their brother’s bones out, in the box they had placed them in. Arya and Sansa carried out Shaggydog together; the box far larger than any of the others. It was a odd to see the Lady of Winterfell carrying anything larger than a book but Sansa did not falter.

Jon ran his fingers over Eddard’s statue and got to work. Tyrion had at least made sure that his father’s head had been returned. He carried Eddard out into the meagre light of dawn.

There was a space left for his father and brother on the pyre. Lyanna’s bones were smaller than Jon imagined. He had always pictured her as a woman grown. He opened the box and placed his father’s bones next to her, piece by piece. Quickly but reverently.

“Is that everyone?” asked Jon quietly, when they had finished.

“Yes, my Lord,” said Wolkan. “I’ve checked with the burial records.”

Wolkan handed him the torch. Jon took a breath and lit the pyre.

Daenerys slipped a comforting hand into his. They watched in silence until the bones were lost in flames. Then Jon, his sisters, Daenerys, and Theon went back into the keep and went back to work.

*

Sam pushed Jon’s brother-cousin towards the makeshift council chambers, his heart pounding his chest. He could hear Jon’s voice from outside.

“…half a dozen more trebuchets in the courtyard. Here and...here.”

“What of a scorpion?” came a voice Sam didn’t recognise.

“The smith are focusing on arming troops,” said Jon’s little sister. Arya. The fierce one Jon given Needle and who frightened grown men into keeping their distance.

“The smiths can make all the weapons they want,” said the man again. Southeron, by the sound of it. “It will mean nothing when that dragon attacks.”

“He’s right,” said the Dragon Queen. “Viserion was the smallest of my children… but he was swiftest.”

“Even if the smiths can make a scorpion in time, there will be three dragons in the sky,” said Jon. “It will be dark. There might be snow storms. How will any man be able to tell the difference between the wright dragon and Daenerys’ children?”

“I can,” said Arya.

Jon’s sister was terrifying. Sam believed her. He edged closer and found Jon before a war table. A delicate white haired woman at his side. _The Mother of Dragons. Maester Aemon’s fearsome niece._

“Are you sure, Lady Arya?” asked the Queen.

“I learned to fight in the dark,” said Arya. “I won’t harm your children, your Grace.”

“Go inside,” said Bran suddenly, snapping Sam out of his thoughts.

That was the last thing he wanted to do. The major powers of Westeros were all in this room, and Jon’s sister, and Sam was about to uproot his friend’s life in front of all them. _Bran wanted this. He waited until this moment._ He was quite ready to turn and leave but Jon caught sight of them in the doorway.

“Bran?” Jon frowned at first and then a smile lit up his face. “ _Sam_!”

The careful words Sam had planned utterly deserted him. He froze. A deer facing a crossbow. Jon was too pleased to see him to notice. He moved away from the map of Winterfell, covered in figurines, and rushed to embrace him. Sam managed to return the gesture even though his limbs felt like lead.

“Queen Daenerys, this is Sam of the Night’s Watch,” said Jon. “He told me of dragonglass in Dragonstone.”

Queen Daenerys was beautiful. Hair like white gold and the sharp, almost breakable Valyrian features that Sam had found in history books and paintings. Yet, like Lady Arya, she looked completely at home in a room full of hardened warriors and commanders.

She was smiling at him. _He was going to be fed to a dragon._

“H-Hello, your Grace.”

“How’s Gilly?” asked Jon brightly. “Little Sam? How was the Citadel?”

Sam managed to make a sort of positive noise that didn’t resemble any word in the common tongue. Jon frowned.

“Sam?” he said, worry etching his features. “What’s wrong?”

“Jon, I have to tell you something,” Sam managed to choke out.

“Did you find something else in the Citadel?” asked Jon.

“I did,” said Sam rapidly. “Can I speak to you alone?”

Daenerys frowned slightly. Jon glanced back at her, that some frown forming on his face. _Sam could see the resemblance now._

“She’s the Queen, Sam,” said his friend a little firmly. His _Lord Commander Snow_ voice. “Whatever you have to say, you can say in front of her.”

“Daenerys needs to know too,” said Bran. “They all do.”

Sam knew that Bran was Jon’s beloved little brother (No, he wasn’t. Fuck.) but he wished he’d locked him in the storeroom when he had the chance.

“Know what?” asked Daenerys.

There was a hint of anger in her tone. A hint of danger. Sam swallowed.

“I found a High Septon’s journal in the Citadel and Bran… Bran had a vision,” said Sam, willing himself to keep his words steady. “Eddard Stark isn’t Jon’s father.”

*

Jon recoiled from his friend as though burned. Daenerys had heard the words but couldn’t understand. _Why would any man, let alone the honourable Eddard Stark, claim a bastard that was not truely theirs?_

The Lannister brothers were the first to recover from their shock.

“Nonsense,” said Tyrion loudly.

“Look at him,” scoffed the Kingslayer. “The boy’s a Stark through and through.”

Daenerys imagined that Ser Jaime would know Edward Stark’s face well given their history.

“He is a Stark by blood... but not by name,” said Sam, looking more miserable by the second. “And his name isn’t Snow.”

“What in the hells are you talking about?” snarled Arya. “Bran-”

“Jon is Lyanna Stark’s son,” said Bran, “and the last surviving son of Rhaegar Targaryen.”

Daenerys took in a sharp breath. The Lannister brothers were stunned into an uncharacteristic silence, the elder Lion looking pale and ill. Her spymaster was also silent. Grey Worm stiffened, his hand ready on his weapon but Daenerys was not afraid. Something had drawn her to Jon, the same way she had been drawn to the dragon eggs. Now she knew it was kinship. Belonging.

She turned to Jon and any elation she felt vanished.

Daenerys had seen Jon draw his sword against countless creatures of nightmare, brought forth by the Night King. He’d stood firm with righteous anger and determination to protect his people. The _King_ of the North.

Now he seemed to shrink in on himself. He looked like a child. Lost. _All he’d ever wanted to be was a Stark. He’d told her so himself._

“No,” said Jon. He almost choked out the word and Daenerys’s heart _sank_. “ _No_.”

Sam tried to touch Jon’s shoulder but he pulled away further.

“Jon-”

“ _You're wrong,”_ said Jon, almost hysterically. “I'm Ned Stark's son. He claimed me as his son even though it brought him dishonour. I'm a _Stark_. I'm your _brother_ , Bran."

Bran gazed at his brother with unfeeling eyes.

"I’m sorry, Jon,” said Bran.

Even if the statement was true, Daenerys could detect no sorrow in the younger Stark’s voice. Arya, her face a frozen, unknowable mask, got sharply out of her seat and strode straight for the door. Daenerys had not thought the small, deadly woman would run from anything.

Royce gave Jon a look that was far too eager. He was not quite as subtle in his machinations as he imagined. _Even the Lords of Westeros who did not support Cersei will use Jon to deny her right to the throne._

“This means that-”

"Rhaegar was married to Elia Martell," said Varys, cutting off Royce. And finally finding his voice. "If anything, Jon Snow is Jon Sand."

Varys sounded afraid.

She remembered the history books Jorah had gifted her on her wedding day. The Dance of Dragons. The Blackfyre Rebellion. Her family had torn itself apart and made themselves weaker. Vulnerable. _She would not allow it to happen again. Never, never, never…_

Sam handed the tome he was holding to Davos. The older knight read the words quickly.

“Well,” said Davos. “Fuck.”

Varys, rather rudely, snatched the book. He slammed the tome down when he was finished.

"It appears…they were married by the High Septon,” said Varys quietly. “If this is genuine and if Rhaegar legally annulled his marriage with Elia… Jon would be legitimate.”

Tyrion cursed under his breath. Ser Royce practically lit up, headless of the horrified look Jon was giving him.

“It is genuine,” said Bran.

Bran was the son of a high lord. The last true-born son of the irreproachable Eddard Stark. His word was all the proof those like Royce would need.

If the Three Eyed Raven had a motive for so cruelly throwing his brother’s life into turmoil and weakening her position right before the dead could swarm Westeros, Daenerys could not read it on his features. Without another word, Bran Stark wheeled himself out of the room. Daenerys felt like ordering, _screaming_ at him to stop, but the words caught in her throat. Jon watch him leave in silence, his shoulders shaking.

"Excuse me, my Queen," he murmured.

The deliberate emphasis of Daenerys' title did not go unnoticed. Grey Worm stood less tensely and his grip on his spear loosened. She wordlessly nodded her consent and Jon fled the room.

Sam looked very much like he wanted to disappear into the wall.

“I’m sorry, your Grace,” he whispered. “I did not mean to… you had to know.”

“I did,” agreed Daenerys quietly. “Sam, please leave us.”

Showing more bravery that Daenerys expected, Sam didn’t move.

“He won’t… Jon would never…”

“I know,” said Daenerys, surprising even herself.

Somewhat reassured, but still shaking like a leaf, Sam left her council room. Varys, the Lannister brothers, Davos and Ser Royce sat in silence and waited for her to speak. _Terrified. Even now they thought her a Mad Queen._

“Eddard Stark, Robert Baratheon’s most loyal banner man, was harbouring the Targaryen heir in Winterfell… and _no one_ knew?” was what she managed to say.

“I spent most of my life in King’s Landing trading secrets with some of the most accomplished liars the realm,” said Varys. “Apparently the honourable, Eddard Stark eclipsed them all. I did not suspect the man for a second.”

The Kingslayer got to his feet abruptly and nearly staggered out of the room. _The Last of the Targaryen Kingsguard. The only man here who knew Rhaegar._

Daenerys, ignoring the startled look from Grey Worm, followed him.

*

Jon’s first instinct was to run. Run to safety. _There was no safety anymore. There was nowhere to run to. The dead were coming for Kings and bastards alike._

His second instinct was anger. He stopped, took a breath and went in the direction Bran left. Predictably, Bran was halfway to the Godswood. Jon ran in front of him, blocking his chair.

“ _Why_?” asked Jon loudly.

Bran looked at him with those distant eyes.

“You wanted the truth,” he said without warmth. “Lord Stark promised he would tell you about your mother when he saw you again.”

Jon was going to be sick. _Lord Stark’s eyes had been filled with shame and now he knew why._

“You don’t care about that,” he snarled. “You don’t care about anything. _Tell me why!_ ”

“You’ll find little joy in your command but with luck, you’ll find the strength to do what needs to be done. Kill the b-”

“ _Stop!_ ”

Jon seized Bran by his shoulders. He wanted to shake him but the image of his little brother’s face, wrinkled in concentration as he aimed his arrow at a target, stopped him.

“Bran,” he whispered. “ _Please_ … come back.”

Bran did not meet his eye. There was none of the unabashed admiration that had once made him feel like less of bastard and more like an older brother.

There was only the Three Eyed Raven.

“I’m not your brother, Jon,” he said.

Jon stepped away. His hands fell from Bran’s shoulders and he couldn’t tell if his scars were aching in the cold or if his chest just _hurt_.

 _You’ll be able to come visit me at Castle Black when you’re better,_ he’d said once. _We’ll go out walking beyond the Wall if you’re not afraid._

“No,” said Jon bitterly. “No, you’re not.”

Bran left without another word. Jon didn’t stop him.


End file.
